The Elegant Menteur
by angelologist
Summary: Shortly after the burning of the Paris Opera House, a series of gruesome murders attracts Inspector Alexandrus takes on the mystery of the Phantom of the Opera. Meanwhile, Christine Daae must discover the mystery behind her increasingly violent fiance.
1. Rêveur

**_The Elegant Menteur_**

**Note from the author: This is my first Phantom Phanfiction. Please enjoy and comment. I need some random ideas to keep it going.**

**-grissomsblueorbs**

* * *

**Paris 1872 - Fall**

**Inspector Alexandrus**

Inspector Alexandrus of the French Police wiped his brow and adjusted his collar. The crumpled paper in his palm felt as if it was burning. Someone asked if he was okay, but he couldn't hear anything. He was switching into Police Mode, where his mind went deaf from the rest of the world and his brain succumbed the mystery he craved.

In the midst of the beautiful Paris night, the inspector sighed heavily and stared up at the enormous Académie Nationale de Musique. He wondered silently as he pushed his hands into his pocket and sighed deeply, if it would ever be as beautiful as it once was. The building which was created in the Rococo time period, apparently held more secrets than he had previously known. The Inspector had come to Paris a couple years ago from England to join the rest of his family. It was certain that everyone in his family knew something about the mysterious theatre. Apparently it was being "haunted" by someone or something and had even killed people!

Inspector Alexandrus took out the paper his pocket and read it once more. He even allowed a shiver to crawl down his spine. He let his dark eyes consume the words for the hundredth time and sighed once more...

_Death whispered in my ear last night and gave me the secret I have craved for so long. What? Are you in question of my motives?_

**_Did you not deny me in the first place? I can no longer question my reason for doing this. I just know what must be done, must be done. There are no more questions. I will silence thee at last and rob thy breath of each one that surrenders to me, their soul._**

**_Find me_**

…

**Christine**

_There is something strange and wonderful about the night. There are mysterious things that cannot even bear to come out during the day. And the beauty of the night will forever be a mystery of the day. Perhaps it is the way we must light the darkness in order to find our way. The way a candle kisses and reddens its surroundings in order to glow the magic of the dark._

_It is this mystery that has forever drawn me toward the night. The mystery and the arabesque nature of twirling and smoky thoughts that can only be birthed from the night… I cannot even fathom the imagination that awakens in the night._

_The imagination is a beast for which roars throughout me and urges my curiosity._

_How can I hide this from my sweet Raoul any longer?_

_Will it a nuisance to know that a woman of inferior birth has the imagination of an…artist? I will be shunned from society and plunged into darkness for the rest of my days. Does this not sound like someone else I know?_

_Oh, what a mistake I fear I have made._

_Raoul cannot know what has become of me. He must not question why I cannot sleep at night, why my hand has awoken with the sudden urge to write. To write the poetry my mind yearns for. What gift is this? But a curse I must trust._

_The curse that he has scarred me with._

_I remember the night that the Opera Populaire burned. It was a slow and agonizing burn that I witnessed mostly from the innards of the theatre. This metaphoric concoction invokes an accumulation of many years. I watched what was my life and meaning, burn and shrivel to ash in a matter of hours._

_In the depths of the theatre I saw the love of my years tied to a grate and facing into the eyes of Death. Yet, I found myself strangely drawn these eyes. And I cannot get them out of my mind. I am forever entranced. I kissed the lips of the man that gave me the gift of my voice and taught me that life is not a closed box. This man taught me that there are holes, holes that a person must cut through the dense part of life in order to see the entire picture that is a soul._

_But I left this man. I left him and showed him nothing but what he had warned me of my entire life. The reality he showed me that was cruel and without justice, was slammed and splattered onto his face by me. I was a coward._

_I never knew what became of the Phantom as I clutched Raoul closer to me. There were shouts all round me, and from far away…the sound of glass breaking. I remember closing my eyes tight, knowing that this breaking was his soul after all. I had broken this man's soul, and the shattering left me chilled._

_God forgive me._

_Much of escaping the burning building is a blur to me. I haven't much of the faintest idea of how we escaped. Only that there were hands, many hands that pulled me from the wreckage of my burning life. These hands I remember, thrust me into the open air and I was birthed again. I coughed, cried, and somewhere along the way I lost my soul. I haven't seen it since._

_On the cobble-stoned steps of Paris I clutched Raoul closer and cried in the wake of the smoking theatre. The sky was clear except the sparkling jewels of starlight. And when I stood and turned, I began walking into the mist that Paris expectantly created at night. The Breathe of France, Erik had named it._

**End (Christine)**

* * *

The second day after The Burning, news had gotten around like fire and then fluttered out just ask quickly has it had been ignited. Rumors were still amuck about a crazed man setting fire on the Opera Populaire. But soon there were other news to be looked upon, and so the Phantom of the Opera was cast aside.

In a restaurant just outside Notre Dame, Christine Daae sat next to a stained window, her eyes set upon a dark carriage and the inhabitant that had neglected for…now fifty-four seconds… to step out of his or her carriage. The inhabitant was nothing but a dark shadow, shrouded by the carriage's curtains. Christine tried to remove from her mind, the details of the past three days with entertaining her mind of who might be inside. Surely someone rich and handsomely endowed with the finest of treasures. Perhaps a prince from Nigeria or some place in faraway Africa?

"Christine, I will not say it again," Raoul DeChagney's voice was firm and cold.

His hands were knotted and his lips were pressed firmly together. His once kind blue eyes were hard and unforgiving.

"Please don't daydream in front of my mother."

Christine let her eyes flick down to her hands, which were placed firmly in her lap. How dainty she appeared when not dressed as an actress might.

However, her heart yearned for the stage ever so dearly.

"I am sorry my dear, I apologize." Christine smiled softly, but it did not reach her eyes.

What was it to his mother if she daydreamed? She believed daydreaming was a gift to a human. It allowed the mind to flow freely and without guilt. Sometimes daydreaming allowed new truths to develop and grow.

When Christine turned back toward the window, slightly nervous to meet her new in-laws, the mysterious passenger had disappeared carriage and all, onto the business of mystery. And for a flickering second, Christine wished she were as lucky as he.


	2. Les Coups dans l'Obscurité

**Inspector Alexandrus**

It was dark and stormy nights like this, the Inspector let his feet guide him to where his heart desired. Sometimes if he let go of his inhibitions, he could find himself figuring out a mystery. And tonight, his feet had led him to an Irish pub near Notre Dame.

Ducking in and out of the pouring rain along the sidewalks, the Inspector pulled his heavy black coat more tightly around him and thrust open the door to the pub. The air was heavy with cigar smoke that stung his vocal chords and eyes. Alcohol was on everyone's breath and his senses became suddenly alert. Loud, haughty laughter rumbled from a corner in the pub and somewhere through the smoky haze, the Inspector could see the silhouette of a large group of what seemed to be very wealthy people.

Alexandrus was not a big fan of drinking. Not because he simply did not have enough money to throw into a big foaming mug of brew, but because simply his tongue was ungrateful for the urine-like taste.

Alexandrus surveyed the room only to find himself growing more and more uncomfortable with his surroundings. His eyes shifted downward to his boot covered feet. Why had they led him here?

When a flash of lightning made everyone in the pub jump an inch or two in their seats, the Inspector looked toward the windows and widened his eyes. Sitting beside the window was a young woman. In black she was dressed, still as a statue but breathtakingly beautiful. The Inspector asked himself why he did not see her when first coming in. Had she been there the whole time?

Why was her presence so alluring?

Why was her skin so milky white?

Why was she ghostly and out-of-place in this setting?

Again, the Inspector's feet led him around, towing his body around like a useless doll. When he was so close the young woman that he could feel her body heat, he cleared his throat and allowed his inquisitive nature to be audible.

"Excuse me, Madame."

Something in Alexandrus' stomach somersaulted and goose bumps littered his flesh. This woman was wearing a rather large dark blue hat that shielded her face from the garish light of the pub. She was staring out at the rain with the audacity of a dreamer.

Her hand was propping up her chin and she gazed elegantly out at the storm.

When she did not turn or recognize his presence, he coughed and tried something else.

"Madame, may I be so bold to say that you appear…" He let his voice fade.

"Troubled."

Alexandrus sat down in a chair across from her and folded his hands, focusing on anything but the woman's face. She was hidden mostly by the shadows, which unnerved the probing Inspector.

"You see I am an Inspector of the Law. I came here to this pub on a hunch that following my feet would lead me to the answer I am looking for."

The woman was silent for a moment before she spoke in just above a whisper.

"And what answer are you looking for, Inspector?"

Silently pleased that he was getting somewhere, Alexandrus smiled and moved closer to the shady woman.

"I am investigating on behalf of the Paris Opera House catastrophe. I was hired by a woman living in Lourdes to tie up the loose ends of this case. To get to the point Madame, I am investigating the mystery of the Phantom of the Opera."

Alexandrus studied the young woman carefully, trying to catch a glimpse of the slightest twitch of her fingers intertwined around a cup, the tremble of her barely visible lip, anything that might hint that she was related to the incident.

"And what makes you think I am related to this incident, Inspector?" Her voice was hoarse, perhaps touched by laryngitis. But her words were sweet and innocent. Almost.

Perhaps not politely, the Inspector scratched his head, which was mostly covered by a thick gathering of dark curls. The wonderful onset from his darkened eyes and pale complexion, this native of the north could not conceal his interest of the French mademoiselle. As she turned to conceal her face even further from him, he noticed her hair was dark and as curly as his own, thick and concealing.

"If you don't mind me asking monsieur," the woman began, speaking softly and under the dull roar of the crowd around them.

"What was it you did before becoming an authority of the law?"

Alexandrus' eyes widened and he concentrated on the blood red of her lips. This woman was very bright. Indeed she had sensed his lack of authority and perhaps his creative approach of following a hunch. She was apparently great at reading people.

Alexandrus shifted in his seat and flipped through his brain as fast as he could.

"I was a ventriloquist, mademoiselle."

There was a ghost of a smile on her lips and she shifted ever so slightly.

"Hide you may, Inspector. You are no mystery to me. Not much remains a mystery to me during these dark doldrums." She said, the smile disappearing back into her milky complexion and disappearing forever.

"I am not much of a mystery to anyone, I'm afraid, Miss. How I crave for someone to find me mysterious in my own way, but I am so easy to read. Like an open book."

Alexandrus smiled at the reflection of his words and adjusted the cuffs of his black coat. "You however Miss, are of great interest and mystery to me."

Her lips twitched.

"I believe so, sir. Since you have spoken to me, you have addressed me as both Mademoiselle and Madame. And by your accent, I say that you are English or Scottish."

She paused shortly to take a sip of her drink before continuing.

"Mademoiselle is an unmarried woman and Madame is the opposite."

Without stopping himself, Alexandrus let his eyes drift to her left hand. On cue, the woman curled her fingers beneath her palm.

"And what shall I call you? Mademoiselle or Madame?"

The woman let out a small sigh, "That is a wonderful question, Inspector Alexandrus."

What was this feeling? A feeling of relief?

Alexandrus did not know why he was feeling relieved. His attraction to this woman was out of pure mystery. Because she was unknown, she was attractive. He wanted to probe further and understand her identity.

"May I speak with you again? If it is not too bold to say; you are of great interest to me."

Her head turned slightly in his direction. "Que?"

"May I speak with you again? Perhaps tomorrow?"

The woman turned her head back to the window. Alexandrus feared that she was slowly locking up the doors to her mind, throwing him out. He had probed too far.

"Perhaps," She said finally. The young Inspector let out a breath and turned to button his coat. But another question poked him in the shoulder and begged him to say it aloud.

When he turned once more and walked close to the woman, he opened his mouth to ask her name. Instead, he said goodbye and walked back into the stormy night of Paris, leaving the mysterious woman in the shroud of a peculiar haze.

* * *

**_I'd like to tell you when I put my hands around her neck and squeezed that I had an adrenaline rush, that my blood pulsed through my brain and I wondered why I was doing this._**

**_But it didn't happen that way._**

**_I sat on top of the Diva and laughed as she struggled in the bondage of her limbs. The bitch roared in agony as I held the knife up to her eyes to see. I wanted to savor every moment. The way I dragged the jagged edge over her soft cheek…It was orgasmic._**

**_I breathed heavily and tilted her chin back._**

**_It was a little trouble to get the knife into her throat. But it was worth watching her choke on the blood that filled her lungs._**

**_And when she let out her last breath, I laughed and cried at the same time._**

* * *

**Meg Giry**

There was something delightful about the night. The way her dress billowed around her ankles in the wind. Her long hair was being sifted by the night air as she felt the papery envelope poking in her sides. Meg Giry ran through the night to the nearest postal office she could find.

Lourdes was a lonely place where ghosts of the future lay behind every corner. But tonight, this did not deter Meg from mailing the letter her heart had longed for. When she reached the post office, Meg kissed the envelope and wished with all her heart for the strength she knew she had lost.


	3. Madame de Musique: Part One

Madame de Musique:

Part One – Inspector Gabriel Alexandrus

I knew that my ordeal with the mysterious and enigmatic (mademoiselle, I think) was a "to be continued" event. Not only did my legs cease to become active at random moments that probed the intricacy of my thoughts, but for a brief time I felt calmer in the world. And of course, it's always calm before the storm. Always.

Jacques Collette of the French police was the first friend I inherited upon arrival in this misunderstood country. A narcissist with an intuitive mind, Jacques has given me many new perspectives of the world.

Which was why I decided to talk and confide in him about the mysterious woman I'd met at the Irish pub. I even decided to let my professional guard down and let him now how my fascination was leading to a slight attraction.

"And what makes you believe you are…to follow this woman?" Collette asked, holding his cup of coffee tenderly between two gloved hands.

We sat outside my apartment on the stone steps. Collette felt like a mentor to me; strong-minded and gifted with all the talents a man should have. Collette, a man nearing fifty, had salt and pepper short hair, a usually unshaved face, and piercing blue eyes that could get the truth out of the toughest criminal. He was a man to look up to.

"I'm not sure why I want to follow her. She's intriguing. I think she knows a lot about this mysterious Phantom."

I bit my lip and stared down at my Earl Grey tea, swirling amongst cream clouds. I began thinking about this Phantom character. What kind of man goes around dressed as a ghost and takes charge of a theatre?

"I think you should talk to the victims of the fire." Collette stated bluntly, looking at me with dignified perfection. He squared his shoulder and bundled himself tighter in his coat. It was a chilly Parisian morning, the kind of morning where it takes forever for the daylight to spill over the horizon and the streets seem eerie. Of course none of this bothers Collette. Only a man of my youthful and naïve age would be spooked by an empty Parisian neighborhood. So, guillotine me.

"And how do I find these victims, Collette? In a city of thousands, I am to find a hundred or so slightly traumatized victims?"

Collette coughs and then, "Perhaps you do not need to go looking for them, they could just as easily find you. You just need the proper…enticement."

I thought about this for several moments. An enticement? What sort of enticement attracts traumatized opera enthusiasts to come out of the woodwork and talk?

"And how do I make them come to me, exactly?" I ask, glancing over at Collette.

"What did you use to do before you became an Inspector of French law?"

I savor my last smile of the day before replying, " I was an entertainer of sorts."

Suddenly, there is a bell ringing. Collette jumps to his feet before I realize that is a signal for me. I leave my tea on the steps and follow Collette through the fog of the cobble-stoned streets to the sound of a person running and a bell ringing.

"Inspector Alexandrus! Inspector Collette!"

I can barely see Collette running ahead of me. He fades in and out of the dense fog. This mist is as thick as pea soup and I suddenly feel as if I am suffocating.

"Inspector Alexandrus!" I hear from behind me. I hear Collette stop and come toward me. It is Andre Giovanni, a local butcher who always smells of cheese and gives me cold cuts free of charge on Sundays. I am surprised to see him on a Tuesday morning, when his store is usually closed.

Andre falls to his knees and points behind him.

"You must come quick, messieurs! You must see what lies just beyond the Opera Populaire. It's dreadful!"

Andre clasps his hands over his eyes and down his red beard. Collete places a hand on Andre's shoulder and tries to calm the panicked man.

"Which way?" I ask, trying to find my bearings in this awful mist.

Collette comes down to one knee and urges the answer from the crying butcher. Andre shields his eyes from us, and points behind me. Without the slightest hesitation or worry of getting lost in this god-awful mist, I run in the direction of his index finger.

I feel lost without my feet guiding me. And without my sense of seeing, I feel completely vulnerable in this fog. I try to keep myself at a quick jog in order to get to the emergency as quickly as possible, no matter what it may be. The cold laces my lungs with ice and it suddenly becomes hard to breathe.

I yell, "I am coming" to anyone who might need my help.

There is nothing worse than being needed but having no way to help. This is how I feel as my eyes begin stinging and I become tired of running.

Somehow my feet become unattached to the ground, and suddenly my head feels as if the best way is down. Which, by the way, does not feel very good.

I am facedown on the cobblestones. My hands have failed their duty in keeping my head from hitting something hard. I groan and look at my palms, which are bleeding, as is my head. I suddenly want to sleep, but fight the horrible sensation.

Pulling myself up, I look to see what I tripped on, hoping that my embarrassment will not land on my clumsy feet that seem to have a mind of their own. I turn to see a red ribbon entangled around my right ankle. How odd…

The ribbon is immensely long and trails off into another direction, disappearing in the fog. Untangling it, I wonder who would have left a completely unblemished ribbon on the streets of Paris. After my ankle is free and I've found myself back on my already unstable feet, I give the ribbon a nice tug in hopes of raveling it up and out of the way of other unexpected people who might be running in this general direction. But there is a weight.

I give it another tug and whatever is on the end slackens slightly.

I pull again; nothing, just weight on the end. Perhaps it is an early Christmas decoration, fallen off a lamppost. Instead of reeling the ribbon in, I let it travel through my hands, following wherever it is attached to.

I feel as if I'm getting closer, when I suddenly get the smell of something rusty in the air.

I know that smell.

In a panicked attempt to not be alone in the thick mist with the smell of blood in the air, I pull on the ribbon as if it is my lifeline. My breath becomes quick and I begin running once more.

Once more I pull when suddenly I see it; a woman lying on stone steps with a mask over her eyes. The ribbon is tied tightly around her neck, her face pale white.

I let go of the ribbon as if it is made of fire and run to the woman. I shake her shoulders and try to undo the ribbon that is tied so tightly around her neck.

"Madame, I will help you!" I yell in messy French as I try to work my fingers under the ribbon. Trying to make some sort of contact with her, I rip off the mask. Only to my horror, I discover that her eyes have been gouged out. I leap back and when I do, the ribbon finally comes free. Only then do I discover that this ribbon was tied to keep her head attached to her neck. And without it, her head tumbles off her body and comes to rest between her legs on her dress.

I want to scream, but before I do, the mist steals my voice and carries it away as white noise.


End file.
